Inside the Mind of a Madman GM
Land O’ Lakes Field, Front Office — 10:47 a.m.
The fluorescent lights above buzzed like a hornet’s nest juiced on Bang energy. Tension clung to the air like pine tar. Then—boom—the door exploded open like a 2-0 fastball to the ribs.
Gerald Brandt, manager of the Twin Cities River Monsters and the last thread of sanity holding the franchise together, stormed in like a Category 5 ulcer.
“Goddamnit, Alan!”
General Manager Alan Ehlers didn’t even blink.
He was posted up in his chair chewing on a toothpick, hoodie hood pulled low, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the desk, and Discord glowing on the monitor like the Eye of Sauron. Trade block filters were live:
Injury prone. Spark plug. Extremely popular.
He was bobbing his head violently.
— Falling in Reverse, shaking the walls."I'm the bad guy, I'm a loser
I'm a psycho, believe the rumors
I got bad thoughts, I got bad vibes
I don't act right, it's nice to meet you"
"I'm the bad guy, I'm a loserBrandt winced. “Turn that down!”
Alan turned it up.
“Want some Jack?”
“I want my general manager to stop cosplaying as a pro wrestler during a midlife crisis!”
Brandt slapped a thick manila envelope onto the desk like a judge dropping a sentence. The label:
“BBA League Sentiment – Highly Volatile”
“I just read six different GMs calling us ‘toxic winners.’ One said we’re the reason Discord has a block function. Alan, we used to be charming. Endearing. Now? You’re quoting nu-metal and drafting relievers with torn labrums because they have high adaptability.... Whatever that even means.”
Ehlers grinned like a man who’d just stolen Christmas and set it on fire for retweets.
“Gerald… this is the best version of me. You think this is some breakdown? This is kayfabe.”
“What the hell is kayfabe?”
“Wrestling logic,” Ehlers said, raising a finger. “It’s the blurred line between real and show. You remember when we were the sad-sack River Monsters? The team everybody liked because we lost with dignity and bad puns?”
Brandt rubbed his face like he was trying to erase it.
“Well, that guy still lives in here,” Alan tapped his temple, “but now he’s been unleashed. Volume turned up to 10. Championship swagger with a hint of lunacy. Just like pro wrestling. Every team needs a Gerti... Well.... I'm fuck'in Gerti!"
"You're doing what with Gerti?"
"No you sick freak. I mean I am Twin Cities version of Gerti"
Brandt paced like a caged animal. “And the forum posts? The passive-aggressive jabs? The midnight memes of other GM's?”
Ehlers held up a laminated sheet.
“You see this? I took our ‘totally unhinged’ write-up about Hak-joon O’s shattered kneecap that I admittedly used AI to write(same as this one) and ran it through an AI detector. Came back: definitely human. Then I ran a ‘grit and heart’ article from a certain other team — you know the one — cause I saw a lot of similarities in the writing style to what I am doing here and BAM, 91% chance AI was used.”River Monsters No PP Team News: 0% AI.
[REDACTED] Team News: 91% AI.
Brandt stared. “So you’re telling me other teams are using AI to write their team news… just to farm PP and redeem $10 million? All because they can’t balance a budget in a pretend baseball league??”
Alan leaned in.
“I’m saying some of these clean, polished, wholesome GM's are faker than Kate's Cookies. Maybe they used AI, maybe the articles are just so bland that AI thinks there is no way a human would write something so boring. I'm not going to fully accuse anyone. But our stuff? It bleeds authenticity. Madness has a pulse, Gerald. And this? This is performance art. I'm not trying to bullshit anyone. I'm trying to revolutionize the team news game. And do it for fun, not to give me a leg up on everyone else.”
Brandt narrowed his eyes. “So who was it?”
Ehlers shrugged with a devilish smirk.
“Let’s just say... I’m keeping it in my pocket for a slow Discord day then I'll drop the pin. But if you think you know? You probably do.”
A long silence settled in.
Then Brandt asked, more tired than angry, “…So why are you making me start Victor Frazier in CF. Cause of a ‘Clubhouse Chemistry: Firestarter’ tag?”
Alan poured another glass of Jack.
“Spark plug,” he said. “The boys love him. Can’t hit a lick, but he tells a mean joke and plays the air drums on the dugout railing. That’s culture, Gerald.”
Brandt sank into a chair like a man defeated not by war, but by interpretive dance.
“We’re gonna get fined. Or sued. Or both.”
Alan stood, arms spread like a prophet in sweatpants.
“Let the league turn on us. Let them sneer, point fingers, cry foul. They need villains, Gerald. And I'm the bad guy. You want a piece of the bad guy?"
Ehlers takes the toothpick out of his mouth and throws it in Brandts face.
"Big trouble for you chico!"
End Scene.
